Elizabeth I

  “I have a mind to wait in Southampton for a secret visit from Henri IV,” I said. It would make perfect sense for him to cross over to Southampton and for us to put the final touches on our treaty. Besides, I was curious to see him, my mirror image and theological companion: a male Protestant ruler of a contentious country.

  “As the common folk say, Ma’am, I would not hold my breath,” said Burghley, wheezing himself. “Henri IV is a wily creature.”

  “His Protestantism may not be as firm as Your Majesty’s,” said Robert—Sir Robert Cecil. I had knighted him earlier this summer in recognition of his outstanding statecraft and loyalty. I had also appointed him, at the age of twenty-eight, to the Privy Council. His father was proud. But Robert had earned it, not inherited it. Thus began, this summer, what later became known as the war of the two Roberts: Cecil staying at home practicing politics, Essex abroad waving a sword.

  “I don’t care how firm it is, as long as he wears the label,” I said. “Overdevoutness in a ruler is dangerous—it leads to the like of Philip II.”

  Oh! How glorious it was to mount up and ride away, out of the city and into the countryside. August is a heavy, rich month, the time when harvests are coming in and we can see the actual results of our labor. If it lacks the bustle and promise of spring, it can claim the fullness of completion.

  Behind me stretched the rumbling wagonloads of things we would need on our journey. I carried all my own furniture—my bed and all its hangings, my wardrobe and writing desk, chairs, and cabinets—as well as my personal effects. Several more carts of trunks held my clothes. Most of the court was traveling with me, except for those lords who needed to attend to their estates. I was well aware that everyone did not regard the Progress as the holiday that I did; in fact, many courtiers considered it a hardship to traipse around the countryside and stay in accommodations that might not be up to the standards of comfort they craved.

  I had selected Cowdray as our destination, the home of Sir Anthony Browne. He was old—well, perhaps not so old; he was only six years older than I. He was a Catholic, and open about it. Yet at Tilbury, when Philip was counting on my Catholic subjects to betray me and join his invasion, he had brought two hundred horsemen to me, declaring his intention “to live and die in defense of the Queen and my country.” When the crisis came, he had sided with me rather than the pope. Now I would visit him in his home and show, personally, my appreciation of his loyalty.

  On and on we trudged, churning up columns of dust. The wagon train stretched as far as I could see when I turned back to look. The novelty of it drew people out to stand by the paths and watch. I was weary and my face was stinging from the dust, but I smiled and waved, sitting erect in the saddle. This might be their only glimpse of me in their lifetimes. This is how they would remember their Queen.

  We rounded a bend in the road, dipping down as we approached a stream spanned by an old stone bridge. As I rode across it, I heard a commotion upstream and then saw a flock of geese swimming toward the bridge. A group of boys chased them, waving sticks and yelling. One jumped into the water and swam after the birds, but they swiftly outdistanced him.

  From the bridge I called out, laughing, “You’ll never outswim a goose!”

  The boys stopped and stared. It was clear I was no ordinary rider. But still they could not comprehend exactly who this woman was, surrounded by mounted men and followed by a huge retinue.

  “They escaped! We’ll be whipped if we can’t catch them,” one said.

  “Escaped from your farm?” asked Cecil, pulling up beside me.

  “No, from the goose fair!” said his companion. “Hundreds of geese for sale or swap, and ours got away!”

  “Let them go,” I said. “We will pay you for them.” Already the geese were way past the bridge.

  “But our parents will punish us for not minding them properly,” said the first boy, standing waist deep.

  “Oh, not after I explain to them. Can you take us to the goose fair? And let us meet your parents?”

  The second and third boys on the river path now had that look on their faces that showed they suddenly realized who I was. They started nudging each other, whispering. Finally one stuttered, “Are you—are you our Queen?”

  “None other,” I assured them.

  “But—here at Branston’s Crossing? Here, with us?”

  “Indeed I am. I am on a Progress to Cowdray, with all my friends. And after you bring me to the fair, I shall dismount and you can see for yourselves. I am eager to meet your friends.”

  Archbishop Whitgift was shaking his dark head, ominously. He glanced up at the sun, which was halfway down the sky.

  “It’s the Queen! The Queen!” the boys chorused.

  “Now, quiet,” I warned them. “Shall we not surprise your parents, and the fairgoers?”

  They scampered away, motioning us, and we left the main road, telling the convoy of wagons to wait, and followed the dusty path along the riverbanks. We had not gone far when we heard the clamor of the crowd, and then we came upon the fair.

  The noise had come not from people but from a multitude of geese, furiously honking. Spread out across both gentle, sloping banks of the river were flocks of them, their owners bargaining with eager buyers. Cages, feed, tents, and other paraphernalia related to goose keeping marked off each owner’s proprietary area.

  The boys ran ahead of us, clearing the way. But unable to keep a secret, they cried out, “The Queen! The Queen!”

  Everyone but the geese froze. A hundred heads turned toward me. I held up my hand. “Please, my good people, I assure you, I come only to see firsthand what a goose fair is like. I trust you will show me.”

  The boys ran to get their parents, who hurried over to me. They stared, dumbfounded. “You—Your Majesty,” they stammered.

  “Be at ease,” I told them. “I am your guest here, and I rely on you to show me what a goose fair is all about.” I dismounted and my groom led my horse away. Then I turned to the parents. “And what are you called?”

  “I am Meg,” said the woman. “Meg Harrigan.” She pushed her hair back, straightening her scarf. She was a stocky woman with a stained apron.

  “I am Bart,” her husband said. “Your Majesty, I—we—”

  I hushed him. “It is my privilege to be here.” I laughed, genuinely lightheartedly. “I am never invited to such things, only to dull diplomatic banquets and speeches. You cannot appreciate what you are spared. Now—show me your geese! And pray, do not punish your sons, for they were giving their all in trying to recover the lost ones.”

  Stunned, moving like sleepwalkers, Meg and Bart showed me their geese. It was the common response, and I am used to it. It was my task to make them relax, assure them that in my presence they need only be themselves.

  “So every year at this time there is a goose fair here?” I asked.

  “Yes. It has been going on since Norman times. We bring our best geese and look to acquire others to improve our flocks. We are very proud of our geese here. They provide some of the best feathers in the region, as well as prized meat.”

  “And they can honk to warn of invasion,” said Cecil, attempting to be familiar.

  But Meg and Bart did not know about the Capitoline geese who had honked and warned the ancient Romans about enemies sneaking into Rome. They looked blank and smiled uncertainly.

  “Never mind,” I said. “That was a long time ago. Now”—I drew them away—“tell me of your farm.”

  “We—we grow wheat and have an orchard. We ... get by. We do not have much extra, but we fare well enough.”

  Suddenly the crowd lost its inhibition about the mysterious visitation, and now people were flocking toward me.

  “My dear people!” I cried, holding up both my arms. “I am the guest of the good Meg and Bart here, and honored to be with you today.” I turned to Bart. “What is the main prize here?”

  When he looked blank, I said, “Fairs always have games, and games always have prize
s, and one is the best of all. What is yours?”

  “It is—it is—the hunt for the golden goose egg.”

  “Oh! There really is such a creature, laying such eggs?” I teased.

  “No. It is just pretend. There’s a gold-painted wooden egg hidden, and the child who finds it is rewarded with a new pair of shoes.”

  “Do you know where the egg is hidden?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Of course. I hid it!”

  “If I were to find it—?”

  “I would have to direct you there, Your Majesty,” he said solemnly.

  “Then do so.”

  While everyone watched, spellbound, I followed Bart as he led me past a rock and a thick-trunked tree and then to a little dip in the field. A small rock, easily lifted, revealed the golden egg. I extracted it and held it up.

  “I have found it!” I cried.

  People dutifully clapped. Of course I had found it. I had been led right to it, by a captive subject. How could he have refused? Now the game was ruined. The Queen would leave and there would be nothing for the people at the fair.

  “It is lovely,” I said, rotating it. “Exquisitely painted. So beautiful that I will take it with me and treasure it always.”

  Again, wan smiles from the children. The Queen was all very well and good, but what of their game, spoiled?

  “What do you think is fair value for this?” I asked. “A beautiful wooden egg, carved by my treasured subjects. To me it is beyond price.”

  They looked back at me, silent, unsure of what to say.

  “I declare it is beyond valuation,” I said. “But still, I should pay for it. What say you to—fifteen gold pieces? To be shared among you?”

  Now people shrieked. “Oh, blessed Queen!” they cried.

  “And for the loss of your geese,” I said, turning to Meg and Bart, “here is—” I counted out coins that I was sure were way beyond the value of the escaped geese. “And now,” I announced, “I would like to meet as many of you as can come forward. And please, teach me about geese—what makes a good one and what makes a bad one. I can only judge them by how they appear on my table.”

  They streamed toward me, and I had an afternoon, unsought, that meant more to me than any formal banquet or ceremony.

  The dun, brush-filled fields stretched away on both sides; twilight fell. Then, suddenly, like an apparition, a glint of green. Cowdray Park hove into view, lush lawns studded with chestnuts, a long causeway lined by a double avenue of trees ushering us over the sunken River Rother and into the grounds. From the bridge I could see the great stone facade of the manor, with its noble gatehouse. Over it the family motto, “Suivez raison”—“Follow reason”—was mounted.

  Sir Anthony was there to welcome us, almost pulling me from my horse.

  “I am near speechless,” he said. “I am honored beyond words that my sovereign comes here to me.”

  “It is I who am honored—to have subjects like you,” I assured him. “And I bring a gift from some of your neighbors,” I said, pointing toward a cage of honking geese, which the fairgoers had insisted we take. Not the usual royal gift, but I was curious to taste their famous birds.

  It was growing dark. I was aching from the long hours in the saddle; I wanted to go to my chambers. Let there be no dinner, no entertainment, tonight!

  We were whisked through the quadrangle and toward the principal lodgings, where Sir Anthony and his wife had vacated their quarters for me. I was to have at my disposal the withdrawing room, great chamber, and parlor, which backed onto the Great Hall. Even in the fading light, I could see the beauty of the great lantern atop the roof of the hall. But more beautiful were the oriel windows of my rooms, glowing with light, telling me that within there would be rest.

  The beds were set up, reassembled from their pieces; the linens and pillows, beaten and fluffed to dispel the road dust and spread for me and the ladies in their adjoining chamber. Candles burned yellow in their sconces, throwing the wooden paneling behind them into shadowed relief. A warmed posset in a silver mug was handed to me to sip just before I lay down. The joy of taking to my bed at last, after a long day, was exquisite.

  But I could not sleep. After all my longing to lie down, I remained wide awake. I could hear Marjorie, Helena, and Catherine breathing heavily in the next room.

  Silently I rose from the bed, tucking my feet into slippers and finding a wrap. I grasped the candlestick by my bed and stole out of the room. I could guess the arrangement of the rooms; they always followed a similar pattern. The smallest, most private bedroom opened into a larger chamber—where my ladies now slept—and that would open into a larger chamber, and then into a larger. I passed through that first one as silently as I could. I would find the gallery and walk briskly; surely that would bring sleep to me. Perhaps I had been sitting too long in one position in the saddle en route here.

  In the outer chambers it was deep dark; the large windows did no good when there was no moon. I stumbled on the uneven flooring but caught myself before falling.

  I found the long gallery, a tunnel stretching into invisibility. One flickering torch at the far end served to show me its length. The great house slept as if under a spell.

  A gaping door opened halfway down, its threshold a marble step. I stepped inside, expecting the same dead, dry smell as the stone gallery. But the unmistakable odor of incense and something else ... something familiar ... hit me.

  I could see nothing. It was utterly black. I shuffled carefully, feeling the floor with my feet, extending my arms. I bumped into a pew, and realized I was in the chapel. That smell ... It was the smell of old satin vestments. I heard a slight scurrying sound and instinctively shivered and pulled my feet back. Rats? But it came again, heavier, and belonged to a bigger animal. It belonged to a man.

  Now a light showed itself, a candle held aloft. A group of men were huddled at the far end of the chapel, near the baptismal font. I could make out the shine of vestments draped over a back. A priest was officiating at something. A murmur of voices—the priest’s asking questions and several others answering. Then the trickle of water, then more murmuring. This was a baptism. Someone was being baptized at midnight in a dark church.

  I held myself absolutely still—not out of fear but out of a wish to be unseen, so that I could observe. I needed to see everything.

  But the light was so dim. I could only make out the number of people—five—and that they were all men. Like wraiths they dissolved and dispersed, slipping quietly away from another door near the altar.

  After a long time passed in dead silence, I crept up to the font. The smell of incense was strongest here; the rim of the font was still slippery with drops of water. On the floor lay a neglected square of paper. I could see that it featured a saint’s face; I picked it up.

  Someone had just turned Catholic, in utter secrecy.

  19

  The sun shone brightly on the long table stretching the length of Anthony Browne’s orchard, set up for a picnic. The specters of the night before seemed a smoky dream. Had I not kept the paper with the saint’s picture, I would have had no proof, even in my own mind, that it had ever occurred. But now I looked up and down the table, imagining rosaries in hands that held only spoons, hearing Latin when the accents were good, hearty Sussex, seeing Jesuits in every black-cloaked guest. As all the senior household officials wore black gowns, similar to those in a college, that made for a lot of Jesuits.

  It was well known that Sussex harbored Catholics, and it had long been rumored that Cowdray was a center of conversions. The households of Catholic aristocrats served as religious havens. But the loyalty of Anthony Browne was equally well known, and I made him an example of how religion and treason must be kept separate. It was not treason to be a Catholic, only to heed the pope’s call to turn me off my throne. The troubling question always was, Until the test came, whom would a Catholic choose to follow? The execution of Mary Queen of Scots, removing any Catholic alternative to me as queen, and th
e failure of the English Catholics to rise up during the Armada crisis, seemed to have answered the question. But their leaders, exiled Englishmen fomenting plots and plans across the Channel, did not give up so easily. They continued sending a stream of missionary priests to convert the country back to Catholicism. As a result, Catholicism had become a secret, household faith, with the great estates able to maintain chapels and hide priests on the grounds. When the inspectors came calling, the priests could live for days inside the secret rooms called “priest’s holes.” They had to be small to escape detection in the walls. It was impossible to catch them all, although several hundred had been arrested.

  Now I looked at the smiling face of Anthony Browne, wondering if even he knew of the midnight happenings in his chapel. Perhaps they did not see fit to tell him, lest they endanger him.

  The late-summer breeze was tickling the leaves in the orchard, and all around we could hear overripe apples thumping to the ground. Cowdray was an oasis of fertility and green in the barren countryside, but as the food was set before us—platters of the special geese from the fair, as well as local game, fish, cheeses, bowls of pears, fritters, and pitchers of beer and ale—I wondered how Anthony managed to feed us all.

  The table stretched, so Anthony told me, almost fifty yards. They had spread a fair linen runner upon it, and wooden platters and goblets made us feel as informal as a traveling court ever could. I breathed in deeply, savoring the smell of the fallen apples. At a time like this, it was easy to feel that I was surrounded by honest, simple folk. But around me, for all that they had discarded their ruffs and padded breeches, the courtiers were as self-seeking as wolves.

  On one side of me sat my host, and across from him, John Whitgift—an interesting juxtaposition. Old Burghley and old Hunsdon had remained at home, but their sons, Robert and George, respectively, were sitting, bright-eyed, farther down. My ladies, as always, sat together, wearing straw bonnets to protect their skin. Under the trees a group of musicians played country tunes, rollicking melodies that knew not of allegory and classical allusion. A maid was fair, not “the handmaid of Aphrodite,” and a man was brave, not “like unto Hector.” The people who knew and loved these songs, humming along with them, sat at the far end of the table.